The Written (24 page)

‘My memories are long, Farden.
Once the tearbook is ready, it may take many days for our scholars
to find the location of an elven well, if one even exists at all.’
Farfallen said.

‘We can’t rule that out. What
happens if you’re wrong and the creature is summoned? Even if the
Sirens and the Arka fought it together I still doubt we...’

Farfallen shook his head. ‘So
you have said Farden, but the scholars have a thousand years of my
life to sift through. Needless to say it is not a quick
process.’

Farden found himself frustrated
and impatient, but he knew Farfallen was right. ‘Gods damn it,’ he
cursed and clenched his fists inside his pockets.

‘Come, Svarta told me you
wanted to train. Maybe it’ll help you blow off some steam.’
Farfallen smiled again.

‘Hmm, speaking of Svarta…’
Farden began, but the Old Dragon interrupted by holding up a single
claw.

‘I am aware of what she did,
and I will talk to her in good time. You must understand she is
doing what she thinks is best for our people.’ Farfallen said.

‘I know, and luckily you had
the foresight to send Eyrum here to keep me out of trouble.’ The
big man to his right nodded slowly.

Farfallen edged closer to the
railing and began to stretch his wings out with a satisfied groan.
‘Eyrum will take you to a room where you may practise your magic. I
will meet you there shortly.’ And with that he flapped his huge
golden wings, threatening to blow the two men from the balcony, and
launched himself into the dark sky. Eyrum headed towards the
doorway and Farden followed him back into the steamy corridors.

‘One more time, and keep it the
same level.’ Farden grinned, wiping sweat from his brow, and braced
himself against the wall. Farfallen took a deep breath once more
and crouched low to the floor. The great dragon closed one golden
eye, took a deep breath, and a stream of fire exploded from his
jaws. With lightning speed Farden threw his open hands out to meet
the blast and an invisible wall slammed into the fiery onslaught
mere inches in front of his fingers. Ferocious flames swirled
around him and licked at his boots, but his invisible bubble held
strong against them. Farden clenched his teeth and pushed harder so
that the fire receded a few more inches.

Farfallen stopped and drew
himself up to laugh heartily. ‘Impressive, mage!’ Farden breathed
hard, and ran a hand through his hair. He flexed his fingers and a
spark flashed across his skin. It felt good to have his magick
back, he smiled to himself. ‘How many are there of you now?’ asked
the dragon.

Farden thought. ‘About a
hundred, I think, maybe more. Not everyone who goes through the
Ritual can actually survive it, and about half the candidates
die.’

‘And are they all as powerful
as you?’ Eyrum asked. He was standing behind and to the right of
Farfallen, arms behind him. His face was expressionless, and he
cocked his to one side as the Sirens have a habit of doing.

‘Well, some are,’ the mage
shrugged. Farden had always thought of himself as simply
skilled
, rather than powerful. Compared to
those of the Arkmages or Vice, Farden’s spells were almost
unrefined. They were the masters, and Farden, even thirteen years
after his ritual, was still learning. But out of the Written, he
was one of the best.

Farfallen turned his head to
look at the tall silent man and smiled. ‘I think Eyrum here has a
few tricks of his own.’ The quiet Siren shook his head and mouthed
a refusal, but the dragon was not to be discouraged. ‘Come now,
friend, show Farden that it is not just the Arka who possess magick
skills.’

‘Sire it has been years since I
have tried,’ Eyrum mumbled and looked around him to avoid the
golden stare.

‘And I am sure it will come
back to you,’ Farfallen looked at Farden and winked again. ‘It’s
just like riding a dragon: you never forget.’

‘My knowledge of Siren wizards
is limited,’ said Farden.

‘I suppose you never fought any
in the war? Only dragons?’ Eyrum’s tone had become icy.

‘I never fought in the war, I
was still in training.’ Farden avoided the subject of killing
dragons under the current company.

Eyrum untied the belt on his
brown robe and cast it aside. ‘Well then, cast one of your fire
spells at me mage and let us see what happens,’ he said, and walked
to the centre of the hall.

Farden looked at the serious
look in the Siren’s eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ Eyrum simply nodded. The
mage relished the challenge and so he stepped back against the wall
once more and slammed his wrists together with a clang. His hands
were held in front of him, curled fingers formed like a cage around
nothing but air. A spark ignited and suddenly a swirling sphere of
fire spun between his palms and the mage slowly drew his hands
apart and spread his sturdy legs. The ball grew and raged like a
trapped sun and the room tingled with heat as the fire storm hung
between his hands. With a swift movement the mage spun on one foot
and hurled the fireball at Eyrum, who stood dead still about forty
paces from him.

Just as the fire ball was about
to blast the Siren into charcoal, Eyrum simply shifted, without any
obvious movement at all, and simply became a blur of a man, sliding
sideways across the stone floor and dodging the flames. The
fireball exploded against the opposite wall with a crash and a
roar, cracking the stone and making it glow under the flames.

Farden was stunned. Eyrum now
stood with his hands clasped behind his back a short distance from
his previous spot, a satisfied grin threatening to creep across his
scarred face. Farden grinned back at him and took a wide stance
again. Sparks danced along the mage’s arm and a bolt of lightning
tore through the air. Eyrum merely sidestepped again and suddenly
ended up a dozen paces to the left in the blink of an eye, his big
bulk blurring with incredible velocity.

‘Speed magick.’ Farden said
with an impressed smile. ‘One of the few schools of magick that we
Written never learn.’

Eyrum nodded again and looked
to Farfallen. ‘It comes from the nomadic people in the east, far
off in the deserts of Paraia where they learn to catch strange tall
deer that can run like the wind. My dragon, Longraid, would fly
there to dodge through the dunes and canyons for sport.’

‘She said that the creatures
there tasted better than anything else. She loved to hunt the
massive desert cats and the sand worms.’ Farfallen rumbled his
agreement and a moment of silence followed. Farden sensed something
deep and sorrowful in the room. He could only try and imagine what
it must be like to lose a dragon, or a rider, and he felt a genuine
sympathy for the man.

‘I’m sorry, Eyrum, for your
dragon,’ the mage offered, feeling awkward.

The Siren looked at him with a
surprised expression for a moment, and then bowed his head low in
gratitude. Farfallen chuckled with a low growl. ‘Did I not tell you
Eyrum, that not all the Arka were as heartless and cruel as you
thought?’

“
When the
elves left, Emaneska was left to fend for itself amidst the
darkness and chaos that remained behind. And it was at this
turbulent time that three great nations abruptly appeared amidst
the Scattered Kingdoms.

“
The first and
greatest, the warlike Skölgard, seized the lands of the north east,
For a hundred years they carved out their vast empire, ruling all
from Gordheim, the City of Waterfalls, on the eastern shores. The
second, the small sailing nation of the Arka, finally chose to
settle in the ��ssfen Mountains. They used their trade routes and
seafaring abilities to become rich and powerful, meddling in the
matters and affairs of the old magicks. The third, and most
mysterious of them all, were a more ancient and proud race, born
from the dark vestiges left by the Elves. These were the
dragon-riders, the Sirens, a strange civilisation bonded to the
great dragons of the north, reptilian in their appearance and just
as fierce. They built their capital in the ice-locked fire lands of
Nelska, tunnelling deep into the mountains to carve out their
cities. Their magick was of a different ilk, more natural than that
of the bold and flashy Arka.

“
What was
strange about these three great nations? Was it not their wild
differences, their abilities and cultures? No, Emaneska has never
longed for simplicity. It was however, how quickly these simple
peoples managed to rise above the Scattered Kingdoms, to become
unified and powerful, a force beyond even the most hopeful dreams
of Hal��rn, or the Dukes of Albion, or even Rassmuen. These mere
kingdoms and fiefdoms would remain subdued and quiet, servants to
the very whim and machinations of these three great
nations.”

Taken from
‘The Scars of Emaneska”, by the critic Áwacran

Farden had gone to bed early
that morning just as the first fingers of dawn were reaching over
the mountainous horizon. In the candlelight of Farfallen’s
cavernous hall they had sipped warm wine and dark spirit under the
gaze of the half-man half-dragon weather-god Thron. They had talked
for hours. Farfallen had regaled them with stories of battles and
great men far into the early hours and Eyrum had become almost
jovial. Farden had not been able to tear himself away from the Old
Dragon, his tales and deep tones had been engrossing. But finally
they had retired to bed, and the mage quietly managed to dodge
Svarta when she rose to go about her morning business.

The curtains in his room had
done their best to keep the bright sunlight out, but now as the
fiery disc began to reach its zenith the thick cloth glowed with
pale yellow light. The mage turned with a groan and threw a pillow
over his eyes while sleep began its slow retreat. His mouth tasted
like dried wine and he found himself again ravenously hungry. A
small voice inside his head thought about trying to find some
nevermar before he left for Krauslung, but he told it to be quiet.
Lazy yawned at him, twitched her whiskers, and went back to
sleep.

After a few minutes of dozing
Farden hauled himself out of the sheets and went out onto the
balcony. Sunlight burst through an almost cloudless sky and stung
his eyes, and the white of the newly fallen snow covering the wide
ledge didn’t help matters. He gathered some in his hands and spread
the cold ice over his face and neck to try and wake himself up. As
his eyes adjusted to the bright day Farden covered his brow with a
cupped hand and stared up at the reptilian shapes wheeling overhead
like massive vultures, black against the bright sky. They trumpeted
and bellowed and called to one another, and he thought he could
hear the muffled shouts of their riders even from far below.

Farden went back into his room
and found a fresh tunic laid out for him in one of the wooden
cupboards, so he changed and polished his boots before leaving.
Wind tugged at his cloak as he walked across the snowy balcony.
Farden was curious to find out if this country ever grew warmer,
but it was winter after all, he reminded himself, and shrugged
resolvedly and rubbed his hands together. His gold and red
vambraces knocked together with a muted clang.

Inside on a dining table he
found a big bowl full of fruits, some of them strange and foreign
to him, but he ate them all the same, with a few slices of bread
that had been left on the side. Maybe Svarta had poisoned the food,
he wondered, but he was too hungry to care, and munched on. He
pulled his cloak about him and decided that if he wasn’t allowed in
the citadel, then he should at least wander through the palace.

Farden spent the rest of the
afternoon aimlessly ambling through the long identical corridors
carved into the rock of the huge mountain. The citadel of Hjaussfen
seemed to be a complex warren of polished stone hollowed out from
the volcanic leftovers of the mountain and her foothills. Every
hallway was arched and tall enough for the biggest of dragons, and
wide too. The walls ranged from glossy black marble to flecked and
veined granite, and Farden let his hand run over the surface of the
smooth walls. From some of the windows he found he could peer down
into the craters and crags of the city and watch the hustle and
bustle below. Long roads spanned the wide gaps high above the
houses and streets, and towers of black stone watched over the
noisy thoroughfares crammed with people, cattle, goats, and other
strange beasts for sale. Farden’s keen eyes picked out a few
sabre-cats gnawing at their cage bars with long deadly white teeth.
He could hear their roars even from high above them in the towering
mountain. The bright colours of the houses and the markets stood
out against the drab greys and blacks of the rock. The mage saw a
few dragons wandering through the paved streets. They shone like
jewels in the sunlight. Every Siren bowed out of their way and let
them pass while their riders sat on top of them, just behind the
base of the neck, lounging backwards against their rippling
shoulders and saddle and nodding solemnly to the people passing by.
Farden watched for a while longer, and then wandered on.

The mage found some more food
in a smaller mess hall that was mostly empty. The few cooks that
were there stared at him with the classic mixture of fear and
curiosity. The mage tried to ignore their stares and took his lunch
with him to eat while he was walking. Most of the other people in
the citadel just ignored him, but there were a few wary glances
from the soldiers at the guard posts. They let him pass
nonetheless, and none of the other soldiers, scribes, slaves, or
riders that saw him bothered him in any way. Svarta’s new orders,
obviously, he smirked to himself.

The palace seemed abuzz with
activity. Farden had no idea what was going on so he just carried
on eating the bread and cheese he had gleaned from the kitchens and
kept walking.